Deciding to be brave.

I haven't decided if my old journals and notebooks are an embarrassment or an embarrassment of riches. I flipped through them the other day and was actually surprised by my teenage self. The first is that I was kind of an a-hole about certain things. The second is that I was so, so lonely.

The third is that I don't really seem to have changed a bit. I mean, I've certainly grown and gained maturity. But some of the deep-down, this-is-who-I-am sentiments are exactly the same. In an entry dated January 26, 1994, I complained of feeling stuck. Mired in a routine where nothing changes. In another entry I just wished something great would happen to me. Something dramatic and wonderful. In another I said I wanted to wake up to a raging thunderstorm or even an earthquake, because it would match my mood -- which would somehow be very comforting. (Dramatic? Me?)

I read the January 26 entry to my husband and he immediately commented on the similarity between old-me and present-day me. I could only stare at the page for a moment, agreeing, wondering how I felt about that. At the time, I decided to laugh -- because, come on, that's funny. Funny-ish. But then, I don't know, now that I've given it some time I am struck mostly by the fear that underpinned every single thing I wrote in those notebooks. I lived in a small world. I was afraid to reach out, to do more. I was scared of who I was or who I was supposed to be. And you expect that from a teenager, I think, but from a grown up lady?

Not ideal.

Driving to work this morning, feeling that familiar sense of dread rising up in my chest, I stubbornly pushed it away. I listened to Walk the Moon sing, "I can lift a car up all by myself" and thought about strength and the strength in bravery. Because, for me, it is an act of bravery to believe in joy. To lean toward the light instead of cowering in the shadows.